semi, regrets, angst.

Nightclubs have lost all of the allure that they once possessed in my eyes. My first time entering one was just over the summer, a foray into Shanghai’s sea & sky: infinity or something to that effect. I thought it was absolutely grand – bright lights, music that convinces the body into movement, most attractive decor, and girls in skimpy outfits dancing about in center stage. I was quite content throwing back glass after glass of alcohol while watching the proceedings. It was a very compelling show and it made me question why I hadn’t experienced the joys of clubbing before.

Semi was held at the Espanda Lounge, right across the street from Nuovo, a club that I had entered one night, somehow managed to spend RM30 on water in, and forgot about the next morning. We’re told to dress for success, so I did. I think I did a good job of dressing up, actually. I’m quite comfortable in a suit. Went in with a friend at 7PM or so, right when the semi started. I was immediately taken aback by the blare of the club’s speakers. Not what I was expecting for a semi-formal. Dance music throbbing in my ears, I ambled about aimlessly for a while, scanning the club. I concluded that she wasn’t there after an hour and a half and stuck to leaning against the rails, trying to look relaxed. I think I ended up looking lost and depressed, which probably wasn’t too far off from how I was feeling.

She walked in close to nine. The instant high passed and apprehension set in shortly thereafter – it didn’t leave me until I got a cab for my ride back home. I wallowed away for an hour and a half in pure discontent with myself. Glancing at my phone over and over again for the time, trying to pluck up enough courage to go and dance with her, falling back each time and slumping over with something of both anger and sadness on my every retreat. Mesmerizing. I plodded back to the bar a number of times for water in false hopes that the barkeep may have swapped out my drink for a shot of vodka straight. The illusion of confidence itself would have been a godsend.

I kept watching her walk away. Walking away from the dancefloor to the bar up top. Walking out of the club in front of me, out on the street and into a cab, out of my sight. All the while I thought about what I should have done. Should have, could have, would have again.

Left Espanda, thirsting for a drink. Something with which to forget or with which to shrug off the events of the night. Anything for it to have turned out how I had pictured it in my dreams. Lying in bed, I conjure up ideals. An ideal setting, knowing all the right things to say, expressing myself with complete fluidity, being able to think lucidly, able to speak without choking back on my frantic heart working its way up into my throat.

Now to wait until Monday to tell her that she looked gorgeous.